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BY 



EDWARD S. PETERSON 

Mess Sgt,, Co, B 

1st N. D. Inf. 



Bits o' Border Breeze 



By EDWARD S. PETERSON 

IVIgss Sargeant Co. B 
1st N. D. Inf. 



Cot)yriglit at)t)lied for 



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FfB 23 1917 






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We have the Colonels — 

We would not trade with you 
We have the Majors — 

Three big men and true; — 
Captains, — Lieutenants, 

Who know just what to do; 
Noncoms, efficient. 

Above them, very few; 
But army! — No Sir! — 

Without the private too — 
Hard working private. 

Soldier-man true blue — 
So here's to you, sir! 

Good-luck! Adieu! 



"mi ^latg" 



Our Flag, and may we hold it, 

Sacred and stainless still. 
Our Flag, may we unfold it 

And keep it from all ill; 
And tho some nameless raiders 

Defy its wondrous might, 
May we, as true crusaders. 

Swing new stars into light. 

Sometime a Land's defiance 

Will threaten its great sway; 
No hyphens then, — alliance 

True-blue will win the day; 
For Commerce e'er aspires, 

And Greed and Power will 
With steel, demand desires, 

And "notes" won't fill the bill. 

Jan. 29th, 1917. 



WITH HENRY— MAJOR HENRY 



We're on the way to Mexico 

With Henry, Major Henry. 
You'll see the "greasers" run and go 

From Henry, Major Henry; 
And B and I and G and L — 
The Companies that sure can yell, 
Or fight, or frolic, or raise hell 

With Henry, Major Henry. 

We're on the way to Mercedes 

With Henry, Major Henry. 
We'll blow in there with some hot breeze, 

And Henry, Major Henry; 
And if she is not up to date. 
The boys from North Dakota state 
Will pepper her a fashion plate 

With Henry, — Major Henry. 

There's Abe and Ole, John and Hans 

With Henry, Major Henry — 
All looking for an early chance 

With Henry, Major Henry, 
To take the Texas border line 
And move it where canal lights shine — 
Raise high that Flag of yours and mine. 

With Henry, Major Henry. 

Two girls are racing with the train 

And Henry, Major Henry, 
Their dust blows high, they seem to gain 

On Henry, Major Henry, 
But their green auto is too slow. 
We yell for them, but they'll soon know 
We're swift Swedes bound for Mexico. 

'Neath Henry, — Major Henry. 



'IT NEVER BAINS IN TEXAS' 



"It never rains in Texas": 

That was the cry we heard 
In Bismarck, where some rumors seemed 

To "wise" boys most absurd; 
But this was one that echoed 

From street to street and tent, 
And seemed to trail the semblance fair 

Of Truth's pure element. 

Alas, real soldiers cannot know 

The weather man's strange freaks, 
It has rained now most every day — 

It hadn't rained for weeks; 
And so the rumors strange to us — 

Most weird and wild to all, 
May be the ones that some day will 

Most certainly befall. 

And thus it is the rumor that 

One day we would be paid, 
Seemed reckless, silly, falsehood great — 

The wildest on parade — 
But — some day the sun must shine, 

And flowers scent the air, 
And soldiers draw real money with 

The smile God's angels wear. 

Oh, glory, glory, glory great, 

For miracles come round 
In these days as in days of old, 

For N. D. boys have found 
Not only pay — but "seconds," and 

The bugle's notes don't vex as 
They blow so sweet — "it never rains," 

But pours and pours in Texas. 



"AMARCHING IN THE RAIN" 



Above a far horizon. 

Great clouds of dusky hue 
Rose with a major menace 

And leered on fields of dew, 
When Colonel Fraine's battalions 

From North Dakota found 
The roadway to the river, 

And hiked for alien ground. 

Apurposing a distance 

Longer than e'er before. 
They swung by morning glories, 

And a hut without a door, 
When lo — the Colonel turning 

Back to the Majors three, 
Ordered a swift returning — 

The sky loomed threateningly. 

'Twas "right about," and then a shout 

As silver spears of rain 
Shot from the breastworks of the sky. 

Brought dark hues in their train — 
But just before the deluge raised 

The "crab" cries of despair. 
Big Major Henry raised the Flag, 

For our Flag was still there. 

And O, the mighty uplift, and 

Much gumbo could not chain 
The North Dakota regiment, 

Amarching thru the rain — 
Tho deeply soaked, and lifting 

Two feet of earth each step, 
They kept a'going forward 

According to their "rep," 
And marched into their camp again 

In good time and with "pep." 



'THE FIRST BATTALION'S BUZZ' 



You may have your splendid horses 

Or your autos bright and big, 
You may hypnotize the natives 

In a peppy, snorting rig: 
With your chauffer and your racer 

You may rip an awful fuss — 
But you never can be in it 

With the "First Battalion's Buzz." 

With "Soup Sewrey" to guide you 

And the road to Mercedes 
Free of licensed cars and wagons, 

And a gentle Southern Breeze 
Stealing from the Rio Grande, 

You need never have to cuss, 
For the dust is far behind you 

In the "First Battalion's Buzz." 

There are bigger, better engines; 

There are names to conjure by; 
There are famous makes of autos 

That are luminous and high — 
But the red name on our speeder 

Is worth all the world to us. 
And you bet we could af-Ford to 

Paint the "First Battalion's Buzz. 

When we take the Texas border — 

Take the line that separates 
Peace and plenty from disorder 

And the dust of awful fates — 
We will take it with red pepper. 

But with very little fuss — 
With an Isthmus "toot" of welcome 

By the "First Battalion's Buzz." 



"THE SECOND NORTH DAKOTA*' 



You sing of famous regiments 

From other mighty states, 
Where wild rose or magnolia scents 

The field where Lulu waits; 
But never was "relief" more awed 

With welcomes, warm and sweet, 
Than when the "Second N. D. Squad," 

Marched from Mercedes street. 

Believe me where the wrinkles spread 

Or hair is growing gray. 
The magic of the "Second's" tread 

Brought sunbeams into play — 
They felt the home-warm fires bright; 

The brilliant parlor lamp — 
When the "Second North Dakota's" light 

Came streaming into camp. 

A mighty regiment it is 

Tho' numbered only five, 
They have a world-big man — "Gee Whiz!'* 

To keep their fame alive; 
And when the border bandits hear 

About our Second Bunch, 
They'll sneak away with utter fear — 

They know who's got the "punch." 

There's Earl and William, Frank and Art, 

And Grover C. on hand 
Prepared to act a valiant part. 

And with the heroes stand — 
And when the scroll of history's writ, 

Our eager eyes will see 
The Second North Dakota fit 
In frames of majesty. 



'THE FIRST NORTH DAKOTA' 



Printed boost and the far-flung praise; 

Advertising to beat the band, 
State Guards came with heroic lays, 

Down to the Texas border land. 
Three battalions entrained one day, 

Fair the village, — but strange our name- 
Yet now you hear some people say: 

"The best of all is at the game!" 

Fraine and Grafton are at the head — 

War-tried "Vets" that know how to lead. 
This is what General Lawton said: 

"North Dakota will not stampede!" 
Big and brainy and full of "pep," 

Major Henry knows what to do — 
Ever the "First Battalion's" rep, 

Coincides with the mighty few. 

Trite this statement from May to May, 

Weak the chain as the worst link cast- 
But this is true — 'tis true today. 

Three battalions, and not one last: — 
One fine major will proudly say: 

"My battalion's the best in sight!" 
Sure, we will let him have his way. 

For all must know the major's Wright. 

Third battalion — O, what of that? 

Sprague is doing his very best — 
But you wait, there's an acid mat, 

Someone's coming to lead the rest — 
Don't you worry — if war-clouds burst 

In a sky that is almost fair. 
You will find that "The Fighting First 

North Dakota" will all be there. 



WHEN THE BIRDS COME BACK 



When the birds come back 

Where the soft, warm breeze 
Steals thru the feathery mesquite trees, 

Tho our shoulders ache 

And our burning feet 
Measure the sod to the company street — 

O, we must believe, 
Tho we sweat and fuss 

They are singing all beautiful songs for us; 
The same that they sang 
Where the mother's wait 

With love in the far-off prairie-state; 
And though captain's call, 
And though sergeants scold. 

We have marched back to the hearts of gold — 
Though the drills may seem 
To the major, slack — 

Please, let us dream when the birds come back. 



HOiME AGAIN' 



It's home again, home again — 

The boys would be 
Father-love, mother-love — 

No "reveille" — 
But if there's any action 

And war's in sight, 
It's move the Texas border; 

Its home, "Goodnight!" 

It's north again, forth again 

To our own State; 
It's to the cozy circle, 

Where sweethearts wait; 
But if there's any fighting 

And the call blows, 
O, it's Anna, "manana," 

It's "adios." 

On track again, back again 

To our home town, 
And no more pick and shovel — 

Our skin turned brown; 
But if Uncle Sammy says 

"We'll soon need you" — 
It is "goodbye" for Broadway — 

Old town "adieu!" 

It's good news — the "Border Blues' 

Leaving behind 
And all the drills and quinine — 

Sunshine to blind — 
But if dear "Old Glory" needs 

Some show of speed. 
It is farewell kith and kin; 

It's trust and lead. 



THE NOVEMBER SHAMPAIGN 



We started out for war 
And 'twas not long before 
We sure got Hell and more — 

More than we looked for: — 
Breakfast at night, and dinner 
Just like a dream, but thinner — • 
For soldier and for "skinner" 

Little was cooked for. 

High in the sky, the sun 
Shines down on mules — a gun 
Peers out from Number One 

Gray army wagon. 
"Skinners" are sprawled about; 
Mess sergeants give a shout — 
All men must eat, no doubt, 

Tho' time will lag on. 

Hardtack is good, perhaps, 
But, to the hiking chaps, 
Cornbeef and "shooting craps," 

Is not in line, O! 
And when the tale is told, 
"Sowbelly's" hard to hold; 
Cactus — and nights so cold. 

Cannot, be fine, O! 

But — when the water's scarce. 
The fruit of victory bears 
The bitter taste — not "squares" 

For barren bellies; 
And, shamming war, just seems 
The most absurd of schemes — 
The rattlesnakes of dreams, 
Like — well like Hell is. 



"Big Bill" has changed his pants- 
Why take so great a chance? 
Rain raay come, also ants — 

The war is not over; 
"Jones" has a winning way, 
But soon, he too, must pay — 
You can't be always gay — 

Always in clover. 

Some points you cannot see, 
But in your flesh there'll be 
Sandburrs and cactus tree — 

Deep — and sure vicious; 
But then behind the "brush," 
You can conceal a flush 
Lost in the Brownsville crush — 

Wild and capricious. 

Will they appreciate 
Good times, and what they ate, 
At some near later date 

Back in Mercedes 
All the good picture shows? 
Clean face, and cleaner clothes? 
Sight of, and smiles of those 

Beautiful ladies? 

Oh, when real war does break. 
This, will be surely "jake;" 
You bet these "stunts" do make 

Heroic story; 
Soldiers the better trained; 
Harder the goals attained; 
Greater the victories gained; 

Higher "Old Glory!" 



THE LOST SQUAD 



Swung from the brilliant Eastern Star 

A crescent moon hung low; 
Ten thousand weary soldiers lay 

In pup-tents, row on row; 
Only the guards and outposts stood 

Beneath night's jewelled glow. 

Only a lone squad did not come 
When breakfast bugles blew: — 

Far on a hill a cloud of smoke 
From seven spirals grew; 

A fan of brilliant colors flamed 
The sun-god's first review. 

Camp-fires died — long columns stood 

Awaiting for the call; 
The scouting units could not find 

The lost squad — and the fall 
Of "skinners" whips on wagon trains 

Snapped loudly over all. 

"Where can they be" — the captain said — 
The Lieut, said, "I don't know — 

Yon lone hill wears a mystic mask 
Unpenetrable." — then lo! 

The winding columns moved into 
The road towards the foe. 

"Ah! here they come!" the tall squad rose 

And answered to the hale — 
The football player gained the ground — 

The Corporal could not fail 
To find the "bunch" — for he had dreamed 

They had brought in the "mail." 



O, TEXAS LAND 



O Texas Land! O Texas Land! 
Your points are hard to understand. 
We sit and lo! — the sandburrs pierce 
Our flesh and Oh! the sitting's fierce. 
We skirmish thru the brush and trees 
And feel your points in all our knees. 

CHORUS: 

O Texas Land! O Texas Land! 

We hope you don't misunderstand, 

When orders came for us to go 

Back to the loved home — scenes we know. 

Why ringing cheers are one big plus, 

And great joy thrills thru all of us. 

O Texas Land! O Texas Land! 
Where red ants skirmish thru the sand, 
And rattlesnakes are rattling round 
And soldiers sleep on bumpy ground. 
Where nights are dark as dark as tar 
And whiskers dim the morning star. 

O Texas Land! O Texas Land! 

With "Spies" and shovels — Soldiers tanned; 

With cornbeef, hardtack, dust and dirt. 

Where "Chiggers" liven up your shirt. 

Where all the world of being shoots 

Thru details, orders and salutes. 

O Texas Land! O Texas Land! 

As on your highest plains we stand. 

We look away to our own state 

And wish we soon would immigrate, 

And be with wives and sweethearts true. 

And all the joys that once we knew. 



"OUR ARMY LAZURUS" 



If our Creator wrought for 

Six days to make the world; 
And Lincoln bravely fought for 

Four years to see unfurled 
The Union Flag forever — 

And if, in modern light, 
Some people are too clever. 

Or, are "too proud to fight" — 
If these are true, the query 

Arises, tho we cuss. 
How long, to move, the weary — 

The army Lazurus? 

If it took aeons, toiling 

With little cheer amid 
Set times of cement boiling 

To build a pyramid; 
If it took years of planning 

The world's great bridge to swing- 
The wide deep waters spanning. 

To closer cities bring; 
Then what time would it take up, 
And with what sergeants urge, 
Our "Lazurus" to wake up 

From his deep funeral dirge? 



If it took months of writing. 

And tons of paper, to 
Make a great nation fighting. 

Play "square" the game with you;- 
If it took days of drilling, 

And years of "watchful wait" 
To do a lot of killing; 

To start a lot of hate; 
Then, 
How long would be the mission; 

How big would be the fuss 
To put in real condition, 

Our army Lazurus? 



"BUNK FATIGUE" 



After the drills and "policing," 

And after all stunts and "eats," 
He flops on his bunk and lays there. 

Enjoying his best of treats; 
And whether the day be dreary, 

Whether the sun be bright. 
The cot is his chief desire — 

Measure of his delight. 

And when the heavens are gloomy, 

And ever the "recall" sounds — 
And the silver rain is drenching 

Parade and the hiking grounds, — 
Oh, he may arise for dinner, 

Or may not stir his feet 
'Til the dusky, sawed-off bugle. 

Sounds for the day's "retreat." 

Worn out by his long "siestas" 

The bunk may be wrent in twain, 
But he does not care a fig-tree — 

He'll cover it once again, — 
And when a "detail" is wanted, 

'Twill not be far to roam. 
For he will be found asleeping — 

Dreaming sweet dreams of home. 

Oh, he may be young and "growing," 

Or, he may sure need the rest, — 
Maybe all this bunk-fatiguing 

Will count in the higher test; 
And some day when there is sounded 

The call, "to charge the foe" — 
He may be the first and fittest. 

As over the trench they go. 

Rest soldier, — altho not weary; 

Rest soldier, — there's much to do, 
And when you are not too busy. 

And not on some "grand review," 
Lie down on your cot with pleasure, 

With Morpheus in league — 
For Cometh too soon, the dreamless— 

The last long "bunk fatigue." 



*THE PASSING OP DAD' 



(Eva*s Friend) 



I have been in lots of places 
And have seen a lot of faces, 
And have heard a lot of people telling tales 
where they have been; 
And have heard a lot of stories, 
And have listened to the glories 
Of the past life of more "has-beens" than a lot 
of other men. 

When they drifted in from "Grande," 
"Dad" said "Eva" was the "candy" — 
For they drifted in together "Dad" and "Eva" 
side by side; 
"Eva" then was convalescent, 
And he only answered "Present" 
When it came to soldier duty, but he was his 
"Daddies" pride. 

"Daddie" said he was a barber, 
And no better could we harbor, 
And he worked the Quartermaster and a big 
"Fly" quickly rose. 
If you did not start him "spieling," 
He could shave some, — soldier feeling 
If he dared to move a muscle, — off would go his 
blessed nose. 

If you started some big story, 
He would bring a greater glory 
In a life so full of wonder, — "Buffalo Bill" now 
gone to "rest," 
Never dared high deeds so thrilling; 
Never did so much real killing; — 
Never had such brain inventive, — in outclassing 
"acid-test." 



He would tell you when not shaking 
With the cold, or stirring, making 
Hair ablutions, antiseptic, — give the roots a 
second birth — 
He came from a mighty nation. 
And he had high education 
Down at Edinburgh the famous, real brain-cen- 
ter of the earth. 

We must not forget to mention 
His most wonderful invention, 
A saddle that will fill you with deep wonder- 
ment and awe — 
Spinal curvature so truly 
It reveals, tho not unduly 
Creating wrong impressions by the spots it 
leaveth raw. 

He had been in distant places 
Where the strong of scores of races 
Bared the hard earth's colden glamour thru 
the lure of "sour-dough;" 
He had been in Tropic stations; 
Had been short on tropic rations — 
And had dug beneath the cactus for the gold of 
Mexico. 

Under General Scott he scouted; — 
(Staring soldier, — can you doubt it?) 
Under Pershing, famous fighter, he had been a 
second Lieut., 
And knew him so intimately 
That he never acted stately — 
Called him "Jack," just like a brother, as they 
ate the friendship fruit. 



He knew also, General Lawton, 
And with him he quickly caught on 
All the tricks and weather knowledge of the 
best of rifle shots; 
And he told a story charming 
Of his way of chicken-farming — 
And his island in Gulf-waters, — one of earth's 
bewitching spots. 

And his classy egg-preserver 
He could tell about with fervor; — 
Say, the noted packing houses sure have missed 
a fortune there; — 
But, — he went away one morning, 
And, — let's not do any scorning — 
His return — was not exquisite, — what's the use 
to make it bare? 

Somewhere, olden, weary feet. Oh! — 
On the road to San Benito, 
Travel slowly, at the rate of, maybe four short 
miles a day; — 
Eighty years is some great burden, 
And for him there is no guerdon, 
For he knew in all life's sowing, — he would 
reap, — ah, he would pay. 



<jSt) 



'SHINE. — NICKI/E A ! '* 



"Henricho," — laddie, 

In all the years to be, 
I'll not forget the 

Good shines you gave to me. 
Perhaps, because you 

Were such a cheerful "spick," 
Is just the reason 

We never made a "kick;" — 
And thru the silence 

Anoisying around, 
We heard the ringing 

"Shine ! — Nicklea ! " , — resound ; 
We knew, not only 

You'd shine our dusty shoes, 
But put on faces 

A glow that would enthuse; — 
And so "Henricho," 

In all the years to be. 
We'll not forget your 

Great shining witchery. 



'(iOING HOME' 



I have seen the smiling faces 
Of the children of all races 

Acircling a May-pole in the sun: 
Heard the rythmic notes of joy 
Near a wee child's Christmas toy, 

And the "hi-yi's" of a boy with a new gun: 
Many lands beneath the dome 
It has been my lot to roam. 

Many States and tropic soils by ocean's foam: 
But no voices seemed more thrilling, 
Soul enrapturing or more filling, 

Than the happy shouts of soldiers, "Going 
Home." 



I have been in fields of action 
Where the mighty big attraction 

Was a football game by clever rival teams: 
Where the noise was sure some thunder — 
Seemed to pierce the heavens yonder, 

As a goal was gained by smashing, lightning 
schemes : 
But you bet your bottom dollar, 
I have heard no sweeter holler 

On the ocean, — in the air or on the loam, 
Than the longing cries inspired 
By the soldiers, army-tired, 

And their witching, wonder-slogan, "Going 
Home." 

I have been in crowds where speakers 
And some noted ofiice seekers 

Brought the roofs of mammoth buildings to 
the ground: 
To the tracks where auto-races 
Pumped the cheer from thousand places — 

Heard a mother when her long lost child was 
found: 
But you hold your last lone peso, 
This is true or I'd not say so 

It is written, it Is great historic tome — 
There was never words more sweeter. 
First joy-cry or some repeater, 

Than the golden, triumph-sentence "Going 
Home." 



'AVHEN OUR BOY GETS BACK" 



They'll cheer him, and feast him, 

And hero him awhile; 
On every door a "Welcome" sign; 

On every face a smile; 
But when the shouting's over — 

The last car left the track, 
Will some good job be there for him. 

When our boy gets back. 

They'll give him cakes and kisses, 

And flowers sweet and fair; 
And every thund'rous speaking gun 

Will boom, "Old Glory" there; 
But when the echoes all have died. 

And dainty joy-foods slack. 
Will mem'ries answer for "square meals,' 

When our boy gets back. 

They'll talk to him of "duty," and 

Of how he "did his bit;" 
Of how the clothes of honored son 

On him so proudly fit; 
But when the talk-fest dies, and all 

The cold winds bite his back; 
Will there be welcome woolens near 

That our boy may lack. 

Nix on free clothes, or handouts, or 

A place to loaf all day; 
But just a job to show that he 

Can earn a decent pay; 
And with your cheers as whistles "toot" 

On troop trains down the track, 
Hold tight that "good position" for 

Our soldier-boy come back. 



'GIVE IT TO RILEY" 



If you have a board or two 
Which you cannot use, and you 
Wish to grant a favor true, 
"Give it to Riley." 
For as sure as night and day 
He has done things without pay, 
Stretched a point or two, some way 
Just to help you, — soldier, say, 
"Give it to Riley." 

You are breaking camp, and there 
Are some thing you do not care 
What bceomes of, — so be fair, 
"Give them to Riley." 
Wealth is not at his command, 
Yet he sure does understand 
Decency, — and heart and hand 
He was with you, — so expand, 
"Give them to Riley." 

Life's a game of "give and take;'* 
He has given, — so you shake 
Out a "pay-day," — come, awake! 
"Give it to Riley." 
For when all is said, the sun 
Shines down on your duty done — 
And your surplus, there was none 
So entitled, to, — no one, 
But "Riley." 



MERCEI>ES" 



Goodbye Mercedes! 

Goodbye all! 

Dear town of our "border" duty; 

Your palms and your Southern beauty; 

Your mesquite burning; 

Your soldier learning; 

Your alien and coyote calls; 

Some hearts are grieving 

But our train's leaving, 

And tho a soft rain falls, 

With shadows everywhere, 

The car's not bare. 

For ladies fair 

Have left a lovable impress there. 

And the flowers sweet, 

And the palms above. 

Are tokens bright of their depth of love 

While the train moves on 

The blossoms white 

And red, are glowing for our delight; 

Tho the town is dim 

On the horizon's rim. 

Sweet Memories cup is filled to the brim. 

Goodbye Mercedes! 

Goodbye to all 

Who hold you so close 

In magic thrall; 

Who have suffered and joyed where your 

shadows fall; 
Who counted the good — 
Forgot the bad; 
Who ever gave us 
The best they had. 
The train moves far to 
The Northern snows 
Good luck Mercedes, 
And "Adios!" 

Jan. 23rd.. 1917. 



WE'RE ON THE WAY 



We're on the way in Texas Land, 

Past clouds of gray and drifts of sand; 

Mercedes leaving far behind, 

And people who are good and kind. 

We're bound for winter climate sure, 

But 'cause it's home, 'tis welcome lure. 

O Texas land! O Texas land! 

We'll not forget your river grand: 

Your cactus and your centipedes 

Your wagon trains and "he-haw" steeds; 

Your sunny days, and days of storm — 

And "Uncle Sammie's" uniform. 

Some nights perhaps in cheery rooms, 
We'll gather and expel the glooms, 
And tell the tales that seemeth best,— - 
The funny tales and leave the rest 
To be forgotten, like the things 
That shadow-time and sorrow brings. 

We're on the way! We're on the way 
To North Dakota, — there to stay. 
Unless our Country calls, and we 
Respond again, — and instantly — 
But sure as day and sure as night 
Our "Unc" must say he means to fight; 
No "watchful waiting" goes next step, 
It must be "clean them up with pep." 

O Houston is a city great; 

One of the best in Texas state; 

'Tis big and cold enough 'tis true, 

To calmly watch our passing thru, 

And not grow wild or "throw a fit," 

As we go wandering over it; 

And as we leave its suburbs dark, 

The world goes on, — the train and spark. 



We pass the plains and towns so small, 
It rains arid then, sun shines o'er all; 
Gray fir trees fly and red sand heaps — 
While some "off guardsman" soundly sleeps 
Mesquite and dead limbs swiftly pass, 
And Jersey cows and country lass — 
While soldiers read and wait for mess. 
Then w^ator tanks are filled, I guess. 

We're on the way! We're on the way 
By cotton fields and rice and hay; 
The boys are playing "Cribbage" and 
Awaiting for the next command, 
Which sure will be an airing free 
At Smithville on the "K & T;" 
The band does play and towards the dome 
All songs arise, "We're going home." 

We stopped at Muskogee, and there 
We found the girlies. Oh! — so fair — 
Some friends of old when we passed thru 
To paint the border colors true; 
And others who were just as sweet, 
With witching smiles and dainty feet. 
Oh, Muskogee, of beauty rare! 
Oh, Muskogee, — our hearts are there! 
Tho in our home towns we would be; 
The come-back tickets, — Muskogee. 

The nights are getting colder, and 

Steam heaters are in great demand; 

But in the cars they are so small. 

They do not warm us much at all; 

And when at Parsons,Colonel, he 

Stood up in all his majesty. 

And said, "We stay right here, until 

We've steam enough to fill the bill 

To keep my boys all warm at night!" 

And you bet he won out, all right; 

The engine came, — the cars were warm; — 

A real man was in uniform. 



We're on the way! We're on the way! 
Sedalia was no place to play; 
But many boys got off and hiked 
Long blocks to find a place they liked; 
And found the place, and had some eats, 
And then marched back thru dusky streets, 
Some towns do seem so dead and dark. 
They ought to fence them round, and mark 
Upon each gate-post, "Rest in Peace!" 
"O stranger from all clamour cease!" 

Oh, Moberly seemed just as bad; 

But Woolworth found it just as sad. 

And put bright color on his store — 

His clerks respond with colors more — 

Oh, dreary town! Oh, weary town, 

With mark-down sales up street and down — 

But then perhaps we'll not forget 

The school-girls who came down, and let 

The boys review real lovliness — 

Real social sweetness in short dress. 

We're on the way — we bid "Goodbye" 
To "Katy" here, and now we lie 
On Wabash lines, and hope to find 
The snowbanks on both sides outlined; 
And sure enough, when morning broke, 
The snow was there, — and 'twas no joke — 
But "Captain Bob" got on, and lo! 
'Twas Spring again where flowers blow — 
And old-time memories, happily 
Run thru the train like magicry. 

At Marshalltown the temperature 
Was ten above,- — real freezing sure; 
But then the atmosphere was dry. 
And really sweet to breathe — Oh, my! 
And tho the business part of town 
Stretched far away, and up and down, 
The boys enjoyed real sport and sang 
While all the little joy-bells rang. 



We're on the way. We're on the way! 
The snow is two feet deep — some say; 
And by snow-fences deeper still 
A hay-stack is a white-capped hill; 
And everywhere where people go. 
It seems some one has shoveled snow, 
Big Albert Lea was home all right; 
His door was open wide that night 
His daughters fair were at the train 
With welcomings, and "Come again!" 

We're on the way, — sweet dreams are ours: 
No "reveille," and home sweet flowers 
With faces dear, — and then there bpomed 
Loud voices, and we soon were doomed 
To rise with speed and quickly dress — 
Leave all ablutions and our "mess," 
And empty cars and find a place 
Near wee Fort Snelling's ancient base — 
Kitchens and rooms to rest and shout, 
Until we all were mustered out. 

Settled at last, and snug and warm. 
Unless we wish to breast the storm — 
The storm of snow and winds that bite 
To see St. Paul, and friends that might 
Be glad to show their soldier friend 
Where all the witching colors blend 
With out-door sports, and brilliant streets; 
Bright light parades and daring feats; 
Where young and old all enter in, 
The spirit of "joytime" to win; 
And who can doubt with great emprise 
And dazzling queens, where vict'ry lies. 

And "Minnie," ay, with wholesome grace; 
We find love-welcomes in her face, 
And generous friends and times so sweet, 
We wish we always could repeat: 
Some one has said, "Magnificent 
The distances," we knew he meant 
"Fort Snelling," but we'll let that pass, 
Some day we'll visit it when grass 
Grows all around, and "Reveille," 
Don't sound for you, — don't sound for me. 



THE PROPHET 



With vision and with music he will say, 

"The hours, and months, and years to come 

will be 
Surcharged with kings of Opportunity; 
With tasks of mountain-height and giant way; 
With great souls building for the great souls' 

Day — 
Trite, shattered chains, and world-wide Liberty 
For mortal worth, and mortal mastery 
Where all the waves of being rise and sway." 

And you will take his hand and help the world 
Move onward, star-ward, love-ward, — know the 

light 
Grow brighter, and the fragrance of Good-will 
Blow softly thru all doors, and see unfurled 
The flags of Faith and Friendship, — hear the 

white 
Bugle of Beauty sounding sweetly still. 



"America Sfirst" 



Real, red-blooded, practical, loyal Americanism, 
— that is what the Senate and the House of Repre- 
sentatives must have now in the most critical 
period in our Nation's life. 

"Safety-first", flesh-pots of home, — partisanism 
and me-first loyalty are very low measurements 
when the call comes to stand by the President 
and acid-test Americanism. 

No man should ever be put up by any party 
to hold the First office in the Land, — a place in the 
Halls of Congress, or any office of whatever 
calibre, if his American patriotism is at all ques- 
tioned. 

This is the only hyphenated title we should ever 
go under, — that is, pro-American, first, last and 
all the time, and especially and emphatically in 
this year of our Lord, 1917, your vigilance, and un- 
swerving devotion to "Old Glory" mean so much 
to the future liberties of the tiny tots within your 
keeping. 

You cannot be less loyal than those indomitable 
patriots who made this Land of Freedom possible, 
and play square with the generations of the past, 
the present, or the future. 

"America First." 



**a[l|e J^rib Sfcat" 



My Country first of all,— even during election 
year. Not my job, but my loyalty to my Flag. 
Not partisanism and selfishness but unswerving 
allegiance to exalted standards. Not the bubble, 
the mask and the petty power of poodle-dog 
politics but the predominating proofs of peace- 
preserving, purifying patriotism. Not a retrogres- 
sion, a going back, but a moving up, — an unflinch- 
ing advance for the most perfect civilization. 

The "acid test," — the measure of a man, — 
superior statesmanship or stupendous stupidity. 

Not the unspiced soup on the slimy lower levels, 
but the splendid immolation of the masterful soul. 
Not a gelatinate, shadow-dodging camp-follower, 
but the uplifted, beautiful Banner of the unafraid. 
Not the fear-furrowed backward glances to the 
unpledged, trouble-plotting, hyphenated hosts and 
the measly wage, but the firm-footed, forward-fac- 
ing fealty to the stainless Emblem on the shining 
hills. 

The "acid test" and the full-statured man, or 
the rippleless vasts of Lethe's never-opening 
tombs. 

The door is closed. 



March is the windy, shadow-full valley between 
the snowy peaks of winter and the fragrant 
meadows of spring. There are no terminals there, 
and so for you and for me, and for the transient 
guest, it is "Forward, March." 

On the sea and beneath, on the land and in the 
air, there is stir and change, — parrying^ and blow 
for blow. Do not be surprised, great things will 
happen,— there will be tests of strength and en- 
durance, — there are indomitable calls for undebat- 
able supremacy and overtowering goal-attainment. 
There is the urge and the surge and the tremen- 
dous clash of faith-armored and death-determined 
wills. It is the onward, ever forward march. It 
is breast to breast and the fruitage and the visions 
of the victor, or the last inch lightning-stroke to 
monumental dissolution. 

Forward are the luminous heights, the sparkling 
waters near the habitations of peace, goblets of 
sunshine and granaries of gathered grain. Behind, 
the lost hopes, the perished pride, — the dust of 
sacrifice, the bursted bubble and the closed gate. 

March, — the mightily moving, menacing, mys- 
terious, magical, medicant month. The bull's-eye 
of the whirlwind, — the sexton of the unfit. 

March! 



